


Equals

by LetMeEntertainYou



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Blood, M/M, OCD, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, ocd!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 09:36:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19827415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetMeEntertainYou/pseuds/LetMeEntertainYou
Summary: John looked down at his left leg, which he had propped up on the sink. It was unmarred, besides a growing bruise in the middle. His other leg couldn’t say the same.There was a gash in the middle of his shin. He’d rammed it accidentally into one of their fancy metal tables and cut it pretty badly. There was blood oozing down from it, covering his ankle and foot in dark red.John tried to make it better though.He started to bump and smash his shin against the table again, trying to get his wounds to be symmetric, but his skin refused to break open, bruising a deep purple instead.





	Equals

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by @agnosticofgod on tumblr  
> My blog is Disabled-Queen-HC on tumblr.  
> Anon asked: if you’re cool with it, i was thinking about ocd!john with some joger? growing up my parents never let me have knives and that sort of thing because with ocd i needed symmetry, so if i was to cut my finger i would have to cut the other one. idk it’s something i’ve heard a lot of people with ocd go through, nicking their ankle while shaving and then having to do the other one too. just sucks man

“Put. The. Knife. Down.” Roger said, no, _commanded_ , his body pale white, his knees weak as he stared into the bathroom.

John looked up, eyes wild, the hairs on his neck standing up, almost like the hackles of a trapped animal.

He didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge Roger’s order. The knife he held in his white-knuckled hand hovered over his shin.

“John. I said, put the knife down,” Roger said again, his voice low, a tone almost nobody ever gets to hear. 

John looked down at his left leg, which he had propped up on the sink. It was unmarred, besides a growing bruise in the middle. His other leg couldn’t say the same.

There was a gash in the middle of his shin. He’d rammed it accidentally into one of their fancy metal tables and cut it pretty badly. There was blood oozing down from it, covering his ankle and foot in dark red. 

John tried to make it better though. 

He started to bump and smash his shin against the table again, trying to get his wounds to be symmetric, but his skin refused to break open, bruising a deep purple instead.

He didn’t have any other choice but to use a knife to remedy this. The table was a fluke, but a knife wouldn’t be. He would’ve much preferred a razor to do the job, but Roger threw all those out when he caught John purposefully cutting his cheek to match the other.

“John, do you hear me?” Roger said, taking a careful step closer to John. John wasn’t a wild animal, but he was unpredictable. John was the most level headed, sweet and calm person you could ever meet. Until he had to complete a ritual. 

That was a version of John even Roger had issues understanding. He was chaotic and irrational and impulsive. The compulsions were too loud to ignore.

Like the day John fell through the shower glass door. While Roger panicked and called 999, John, without hesitation, grabbed a shard and sliced open his other arm. No thought, no delay. All John craved in that moment was uniformity. 

Which is why Roger moved slowly. If he scared John, he knew John would plunge the knife into his leg. This knife was serrated, though. Meaning John would have to saw at himself to get anywhere. The mental image made Roger nauseous.

“Sweetheart, did you hear me?” Roger repeated.

“I have to make it equal,” was John’s reply. He said it as if it was obvious. As if he was saying the sky is blue and the grass is green. One leg is hurt, so the other one has to get hurt too. Or else bad things will happen. Obviously.

“I know you feel that way. Can we talk about it?” Roger says, trying to sound lighter and more relaxed. Like his boyfriend wasn’t threatening to cut himself right in front of him.

“Can I do it first? And then we’ll talk?” John asked innocently. Roger had never had the guts to ask John if he could think rationally at all in these moments. The things he said sounded so deluded, Roger could only believe John was entirely consumed by the compulsion.

“No. I want to talk now. Is that okay?”

John shook his head, the serrated edge touching his leg hairs. “No. If I don’t do it soon, something bad is gonna happen.”

Roger’s heart sped up when the knife inched closer to John’s flesh. “Like what?” he asked, not knowing if this would help or make it worse.

“You’ll die. Or Russia will detonate their nukes. Mum might get cancer. I’m not sure which,” John said easily.

Roger blinked. The Russia one was new. No more news channels for John. And knives. No more knives. 

“What if I told you none of that was true? That you had no impact on me living or your mum’s health. Or Russia,” Roger said, risking another step towards John. He was terrified of trying to snatch the knife away, cutting himself or John in the process. John had a good grip on it. He could wait for an opportunity, though. 

John’s leg was cramping from holding it up so high for so long, but he kept it propped on the sink. “That’s not true. I don’t want to talk anymore,” he said, looking down at his leg. 

Symmetry is what keeps things balanced. It is what keeps things correct. The universe is an example of symmetry. Too much of one element and you get destruction and fiery explosions and implosions. John knew this and believed in it passionately. Things had to stay equal or he’d implode. It was simple as that.

He brought the knife down onto his skin, jumping back when his hand exploded in pain.

Roger had slapped John’s hand with everything he had. It made his stomach twist and his vision double, laying a hand on his lover in such a vulnerable position, but it had to be done.

The knife clattered onto the bathroom floor, skidding away from John. John looked back at Roger, his nostrils flared. He began to bend down to pick it up, but Roger wrapped his arms around his middle and picked him up.

“What are you doing? What is wrong with you? Let me down! Put me down, Roger! **Put me down**! You have _no_ idea what you’ve done! I need to do this! Roger! **_Roger!_** ” 

John screamed and struggled, kicking at Roger, who hauled him to their bedroom, tossing him onto their bed.

John sprung up from the bed only to be pushed back down by Roger.

“John! _Please!_ Please, for a second, think about what you are doing. I know it’s hard, but please! You want me to let you cut yourself? So that your mum doesn’t get cancer? Do you understand how crazy that is?” Roger cried, exasperated. He knew John was struggling. He’d never say he wasn’t. But this was hard on him too. John deserved so much better than this disorder. 

John paused his frantic efforts, laying back on the bed. He’d gotten blood all over himself, the bed and Roger. His leg with the gash hurt. It really hurt. He couldn’t imagine having two legs that hurt like that. 

John sniffled as his brain battled. Logic versus obsessions. Who would win?

If he thought really hard about it, he knew all of this was ridiculous. And yet, he still perused this insanity, only because the compulsions were so scary. The anxiety of not doing them made him want to die. John didn’t have a choice.

Most times he didn’t have a choice. When left alone, his OCD would win. But Roger was here. And although it didn’t make the prospect of Roger dying or Russia nuking them any less terrifying, he could be a source of comfort and refuge. 

John wiped his eyes and croaked, “My leg hurts.”

Roger felt his heart sinking with joy, a very strange feeling. He took it, though.

He helped John downstairs and sat him in the kitchen while he got the first aid kit, which was in a kitchen drawer. He wet a paper towel and wiped up all the blood before tending to John’s cut. It was deep, but it didn’t need stitches. John whined and trembled as alcohol fizzed on the cut. The ointment didn’t feel any better. The bandage stung. 

Roger got up, grabbed a chair and sat next to John. He buried his face into his hands and exhaled deeply. “You’ve given me a run for my money, Deacy,” he mumbled into his palms.

John curled up on the chair, hugging his knees to his chest. He felt guilty. He felt nervous. He felt close to crumbling. Disappointing Roger, though? It made him feel ashamed. A grown man, incapable of controlling his mind enough for his partner to not have to worry every goddamn day? What a failure. 

What made it worse was that he still ached to make himself equal. He feared that the moment Roger looked away, he’d reach for a knife again. He hadn’t learnt his lesson. His impulsivity still ruled him.

“I’m sorry,” John said, his voice quivering. 

Roger laughed bitterly. “Oh, John. I could never be mad at you. Really. Right now, I’m mad at myself,” he said, as he rubbed his eyebrows.

“Why?” John asked, clueless as to how Roger could spin the situation as his fault.

“‘Cuz I’ve seen you like this for months now. Years. And I’ve never done anything. It was never cute or weird. Always disturbing. And I just let you get worse because I was too chickenshit to ask or reach out,” Roger replied.

John bit his thumb nail. “That was never your job to do. I know I’m...irrational. I know the things I do are bad. And I never asked for help, either.”

Roger shook his head, getting up. He knelt before John, his hands finding John’s own. His thumb rubbed over the front of the hand he had slapped earlier, still warm and red.

“It’s not the same, babe. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being a bystander. Sorry for slapping you and manhandling you. John, you’re far too precious for any of this. Tomorrow, we’ll call a doctor, okay? This ends today. No more hurting yourself. No more worrying. No more thinking all those thoughts. You’re-” Roger had to clear the lump in his throat. “Too good of a person to have to do this. Okay? I love you, Deacy.” 

John didn’t like doctors. Didn’t like therapists. Didn’t like pill bottles. But he nodded. “I love you too,” he said, suddenly feeling weak. This little game he was playing with himself was over. He didn’t know if he liked that or not.

Anything for Roger.

He squeezed Roger’s hand. 

♚

“Roger! Roger!!” John called, running into Roger’s office (which was just a room filled with his instruments). 

Roger set down the guitar he was fiddling with, rushing over to John’s side. 

“What? What is it?” he asked, looking John all over.

John held up a finger, his lips curled into a frown. On the tip of his index finger, a single bead of blood. Paper cut.

“I’m scared, Rog. Thinking bad things. I need help. Need help,” John sputtered out, leaning from foot to foot, anxious. 

It had been 6 months since the incident. Therapy was going well. John finally found the right pill and dose. Things were improving, progress was being made. This paper cut, though, had sent John back all the way to step 1.

It was a paper cut. Just a paper cut. No big deal. No big deal if he made it equal either. It was _just_ a paper cut, after all.

“I think I’m gonna-”

“No, no, don’t worry. Thank you for telling me, John. Come sit,” Roger said, leading John to a chair. John sat, still holding his finger up, his eyes dark, as if the finger was taunting him.

Roger crouched beside John, getting a tissue from his pocket to dab at the speckle of blood. 

“Okay. So remember in therapy, how you’re supposed to do confirmations? How do they go again?” Roger asked.

John hesitated, his mind blurry. “Uh...it’s affirmations. Um. Okay. Um. I’m in control of my mind, not anyone else or the world. Uh. I can resist bad urges because I am in control, not my mind. I have authority over what I do, not my thoughts. I have overcome obsessions before and I will right now. I am not defined by my OCD,” John said, growing more and more confident as he spoke. Roger smiled, rubbing his shoulder.

“I am strong. I am better than this. I am smarter than this,” John finished, his finger lowering.

“That was fantastic, babe,” Roger says, kissing John’s cheek. “How’s the stress level now?”

“7... maybe 6...” 

“That’s workable. Do you want to talk about it or be distracted?”

“Distracted. Please,” John said stiffly. 

“Can do,” Roger says with a salute.

Within 10 minutes, they were outside, looking inside the engine of on of their older cars

“So, I was thinking, if we got a newer piston, it’d run faster,” Roger said, flicking the old rusty one.

John shook his head. “It’s a mini cooper, love. Nothing’s gonna get it over 100 unless we install a double muffler.”

“And how is that going to work, exactly?” Roger asks, a hand on his hip.

“Well...”

John spent the next 20 minutes going over a figurative overhaul of their busted mini coop. He’d gotten so passionate about them needing a double muffler, he’d forgotten all about his finger and his need for symmetry. All he thought about in that moment was convincing Roger a single muffler would be a speed cap.

All the while, Roger smiled and played dumb, getting John to talk on and on about the car, knowing he was easing up, forgetting about his paper cut. When the worry faded from John’s eyes, Roger knew he’d done a good job.

“But why get a double muffler when it’s so much work?”

“Roger! I just told you why!”

“I don’t get it.”

“Oh goodness. We need a double because...”


End file.
